


diminuendo

by petitegateau



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, with me there is no difference between sex and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitegateau/pseuds/petitegateau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re the only woman he trusts to let see him like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	diminuendo

**Author's Note:**

> This really has no direction or purpose; it was written to poke fun at my good friend Izzy (it worked).  
> Bloop.

It’s like a bud, quivering at the brink of spring and primed to blossom—the feeling of an orgasm’s tension building deep in your gut. Your voice is high, frantic, foreign in your own ears. The irony of it all is that only he can get these kinds of sounds out of you.  

Trembling fingers scramble for purchase on his sweat-slicked back. “ _Nic, I’m_ —”

Fuck. Right, he can’t hear you. You find the knowledge slips all too easily from your mind when he’s inside of you like this. One hand fisting the pillow under your head, the other supporting your lower back as he jerks your hips against his in time with his thrusts. 

Nicolas’s face is buried into the crook of your neck, breath heavy, mouth open and hot against your throat to drink in the moans reverberating there. Your skin stings where earlier his kisses had given way to deep red bruises and score-marks in answer to the angry trails your nails raked down his chest and across his shoulders.  

With a sharp gasp, you grab a fistful of his hair and yank him up. Nicolas falters; your heart jumps into your throat— _not now, I’m so close_ —and you urge him forward with a squeeze of your legs around his waist. The lamp on the bedside table is dim, but there’s no mistaking first the mild annoyance, and then the question in his eyes. They hone in on to your mouth.  

“Coming!” You don’t trust yourself to utter anything more with enough coherence for him to read your lips. You’re already arching into him, taunt, vibrating.  

His eyes narrow and he pins you with a haughty, lopsided grin. ’ _Good_ ,’ he mouths, bearing down on you and _yep that does it, the fucker_.  

Just like that, you’re gone. Your world goes blank and there’s only warmth and lightning shooting up your spine. You cry out and try to twist away from Nicolas but his arms have got you caged in. He shows no sign of letting you go, of letting up. He’s going to fuck you through his orgasm—is it possible to die from this? You can’t breathe—turn to press your face into his pillow.  

“No,” he rasps aloud this time. He grabs your chin and forces you look him in the eye.  _No_. He wants to watch, enraptured, as you shatter into bite-sized pieces beneath him. All for his eager consumption, for his pleasure. So you meet his gaze and melt into him. And somewhere, beyond the haze of it all, your hand seeks his and finds purchase.  

“Come for me, Nic,” you plead and grip his fingers.  

He gives you a look— _don’t you dare, woman_ —but you can tell he’s approaching his own breaking point. Hitched breathing, lashes like dark smudges shadowing his eyes. His lips, kissed swollen and red, part. You shudder and trace their shape with a forefinger.  

“Babe, please. I want to feel you.”  

Nicholas growls and moves to nip at your finger. Your mouth meets him halfway instead, teeth first and not entirely pleasant. You kiss him—hard—then draw away so that he can see your lips.  

“Let me feel it.”

His forehead bumps into yours, presses you back into the pillow as a strained curse leaves his lips.  

With one final, deep push, he comes unraveled and you feel him, throbbing and hot, fill you. He squeezes your hand and you squeeze back. Though he can’t hear you, you brush your lips against the shell of his ear and urge him to fill you with everything he has to give. And though he can’t hear you, he understands. You’re the only woman he trusts to let see him like this. Raw. Vulnerable.  

He claims he likes prefers to watch you orgasm because he finds the faces you make beautiful. You’d call into question the validity of such a claim if it wasn’t so damn true for you in reverse. He lets you watch him; it’s the moments like these in which you feel closest, most intimate. And he’s learned to not pull away….

At length, Nicolas releases a pent-up breath and relaxes against you. You feel him pull out carefully, as if to avoid hurting you. (As if he would ever hurt you.)

He dumps his body next to yours and lies there without moving. He’s still holding your hand, you notice. And he’s still watching your face with a kind of quiet reverence that, after all this time, still makes you feel shy.

You lower your eyes and tap your lips with a finger; Nicolas takes the cue and leans in for a sleepy kiss. It’s only when you part that he finally unlaces his fingers from yours. His hand, now free, traces the curve of your ribcage and comes to a rest under your breast. It stays there until your breathing slows and you can no longer feel the staccato beat of your heart against your ribs. 


End file.
